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Which is annoying.
It would be much easier to write him off as a billionaire asshole if he would cooperate by behaving like one.
The jerk.
Day one in New York is considerably less glamorous. He wasn’t lying about the business meetings.
So.
Many.
Fucking.
Meetings.
I wanted access. Apparently, access involves conference rooms.
Financial projections.
A forty-seven-minute discussion about international licensing that makes me contemplate faking my own death.
Mitchell, meanwhile, is completely engaged. The man remembers numbers nobody else remembers. Asks questions that make executives sit straighter. Catches discrepancies buried three slides deep in presentations.
He never raises his voice. He doesn't need to. And I’m starting to understand how he turned millions into billions.
By six o'clock, my brain is soup. Which is why I'm almost embarrassingly grateful when he tells me we're staying in for dinner.
Food arrives from a fantastic restaurant I've heard of but never managed to visit. Nothing elaborate. No staff hovering. No ten-course billionaire extravaganza.
Just the two of us eating ridiculously good food at his dining table while Central Park glitters beyond the windows.
He almost seems apologetic.
“I realize this isn't particularly exciting material.”
“Mr. Knight, I spent forty-seven minutes listening to two men argue about international licensing.”
“Forty-three.”
I stare at him.
“Of course, you’d know that.”
His mouth twitches.
“Tomorrow will be more interesting.”
“Promise?”
“No.”
I laugh. And that's becoming a problem. Because when he's not deliberately antagonizing me, Mitchell is...
Easy.
Far too easy.
By the time dinner is over, I'm exhausted.
